The Parking Lot Attendant by Nafkote Tamirat

Author:Nafkote Tamirat
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

ON THE SUBJECT OF DISTRACTIONS

There was no proof that Ayale ever slept with Elsie. True, he had yet to exhibit any qualms whatsoever about sleeping with any woman, single or not, and true, such beauty within such easy reach was tempting, especially for the (admittedly) easily waylaid Ayale. No matter. I chose to believe that he remained steadfast, even when confronted with the infamous rose dress, which (admittedly) Elsie did begin to wear almost exclusively on her now daily visits to the lot, to monitor Fiker’s recovery she said (never to me), although from what was never explained.

It was Elsie who put her full red lips flush against Fiker’s misshapen ear—which no one ever acknowledged—and whispered that Ayale had bigger plans. “Why does he work so hard to get you all that extra money?” “To help us,” he replied uncertainly. “Why didn’t he help you before? Do you remember how I found you?” He raised a hand to slap her, but she pushed him onto the bed that exacerbated Ayale’s back problems, straddling his lumps with her lithe form. “If I were you, I’d stop playing with me and I’d go get what’s mine.” Fiker still smacked her, to make a point, before struggling into his clothes. It was only a matter of time before envelopes were delivered into her hands, before Ayale was nowhere to be found post-five, pre-seven, before we all started to wonder, then stopped ourselves lest anyone be listening in.

Fiker’s presence became an assault; his every move felt like vengeance. He and Ayale laughed louder and louder at each other’s jokes, the growing tension causing nosebleeds and headaches among the attendants. Elsie still visited, but when she did, Ayale stayed in the booth and Fiker spoke to her on the sidewalk, never allowing her onto the lot. There were rumors that one of us had turned informant, sharing secrets with her that were otherwise kept to dead ends and the Greek coffee shop whose grease floated viscously atop all beverages.

I was one of the last to see Elsie before she vanished from the lot—to Montana, said the hopeful; to Eritrea, said the petty. Her magnificent curls were contained in an intricately wrapped scarf. Fiker wasn’t there, so Ayale stayed outside, reading the government-sponsored and independent newspapers he received weeks after their publication from Ethiopia, highlighting the portions he felt crucial for my improvement. I hated reading Amharic—it took too long to wrench any sense out of the prolix passages of muddy type—but I remained touched by his efforts, proof that I was a worthy person, that my presence in the world mattered.

“Any plans for tonight?” she asked.

“Sleeping.”

“Alone?”

She smiled. He didn’t.

“Your husband will be back soon.”

She waited, arms crossed, and when nothing else came, she shook her head.

“I wouldn’t do this if I were you.”

He turned a page.

“But you’re not.”

“If I was, I would have done it better.”

He looked at her for a second before throwing his head back for a belly laugh. She turned to leave.

“Tell him I love him.

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